


Glass fish

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WYSIWYG. About gifts, glass fish and seeing to the heart of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass fish

## Glass fish

by Spyke

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

If you recognize them, PF owns them. If you only THINK you recognize them, I do. 

Story Notes: Warnings: Extended and reclined metaphors. Slip slide of events. Nothing much happens or a whole lot does. Post TSbyBS. 

* * *

The fish was in an elite diamond sparkly store, the kind where ceiling light was stark and fluorescent enough to eradicate all shadows. Not his kind of place, not even Blair's kind of place, so Jim wouldn't have looked twice except a faint glitter caught his attention. 

A glass fish - no, when he adjusted focus he saw the thin veining that indicated good quality quartz, well cut and obviously expensive. It stood in a display cabinet by itself, safe behind reinforced glass and double barred steel casing, maybe a bit over the top for what was an ersatz but elegant icon of a pre-piscine fossil trapped between two layers of crystal. But when he narrowed his irises and focused, the actual delicacy of the structure was pretty damn amazing. 

Make that spectacular. Each vertebra and bone seemed to be outlined in filamentous detail, spliced and realistic down to the point where his eyes started crossing and little spots floated in front of his vision. 

"Can I help you?" 

Jim looked up into a pock-marked craterous landscape edged in dull rust to murky brown, blinked, adjusted his eyesight to 'normal' and found that the saleslady was smiling sweetly at him, articulating mocha lips in elegant competence. 

"I see you noticed the Chrysler." Her tone of voice was warm and secretive, the way his mother's would dip before she told him bedtime stories. Giving in, Jim walked the necessary four feet into the store and stopped at the display. 

"It's a nice fish," he admitted grudgingly, sneaking a peek at the quietly tailored gray jacket to check for a nametag. None. One of _those_ stores. 

"Not just a fish," she corrected, manipulating a few dozen bolts as well as a keypad to open the cabinet. "Would you care to take a closer look?" 

Repressing the urge to tell her exactly how close he'd already looked, Jim bent his head and studied it. 

It wasn't actually a fish; more like an artist's rendering of what he thought a fish might become in all the days of its existence, from development to death to decay into fossilization. Even at normal vision Jim could see the outer sheen of copper veins that outlined a glimmer of scaling, forming an almost three-dimensional holographic effect of a fish, the outer and inner clearly visible. 

"Anton Chrysler called it 'Glassfish, or the scales of Paul," said the saleslady softly. "It's the last piece he ever made. You know the story?" 

Jim quirked a polite eyebrow: wondering why he always seemed to gravitate into the sphere of the quietly talkative, pushy kind. He should ask Blair, make the guy use his minor in psychology. 

The woman smiled, not looking at Jim but running her index finger over the fish. "Chrysler used to be a genius with his hands. His great love of sculpture translated into pieces made in almost every medium, but his true passion lay in brittle translucent materials like glass, quartz, crystal and sandstone. He spent his life trying to perfect tools that would manipulate substance and not destroy it." Her voice lowered, becoming almost reverent. " 'I have looked into the soul of glass and found it fragile, yet not without strength: passionate and cold, powerfully human.'" 

Jim blinked slightly, the cadences and the suddenly obvious hints of Chanel No.5 bringing him back out of a dangerous fall into focus, reminding him he probably shouldn't try to look through the crystal layers of atoms that bound this piece of sculpture together. 

They were pretty though. Rough whorls and jagged surfaces where edged light seemed to break up into more than color - 

Jim blinked again and realized the lady was looking at him expectantly. He tried to remember what they'd been talking about. Oh yeah. 

"Is that a quote?" 

She smiled at him, like he'd passed a test of some sort. "Almost. And even if he didn't say those words, I think he lived them." 

"He's dead?" 

"No." Her finger followed a shimmer of bronze in the quartz. She seemed to like touching the fish. 

Jim couldn't blame her. The longer he looked at it the more fascinating it got, scales breaking into units, little rivulets, streams and lines of fractures and threads, each of which had their own necessary place in the overall scheme. Very, very delicate work: startlingly intricate. 

"Haunting, isn't it?" She peered over his shoulder, proximity and the body-warm whiffs of perfume doing strange things to his libido. Crushing it for one, his olfactory receptors were zooming in and out on the sensation, piggybacking on sight and making him dizzy. "The more you look at it, the more you find there is to see." 

Again it sounded like a statement layered with meaning. Double meanings. Jim forced himself to speak. 

"Very fine detail. What did he use, a laser?" 

Her brows lifted. "You're very perceptive. Yes he did, in fact he was one of the first persons in the world to use a micro-laser for artistic purposes." She paused; smile twisting strangely. Jim supposed it would look a lot more attractive if he didn't focus on the irregularity of her skin as it blurred into a haze of forming tissue. His vision seemed to be blinking in and out. Weird. 

"He was diagnosed with a retinal defect and extra-linear curvature of the lens, a genetic condition that I suspect was the reason he found it easy to look into the heart of glass." She shrugged. "By the time he was forty years old, the increasing pressure in his eye was turning him slowly blind. His only hope to retain sight and have some chance at a normal life was corrective surgery. An operation, of course, that would cost him the very vision that made him who he was." A thin smile played about her lips as she faintly accented the penultimate phrase, holding the pause significantly. 

Melodramatic or not, Jim was impressed and slightly shaken. She was very, very good at her job. 

"Then this was the last piece he made?" 

"The last piece. The equipment used to make 'The Scales of Paul' is the same as was used in his corrective surgery." 

Right. 

"And he never did another." 

She sighed softly, the slightest exhalation. "No." 

Jim nodded, mildly uncomfortable. Wondering why he was here listening to tales of glassblowers and crystal seers when he could be walking past rows of brightly colored window displays, refusing to be seduced into buying a gift for Blair. 

He rose from his semi-stoop and turned towards the door, remembering a little too late to say, "Thank you." 

"You're welcome, Detective Ellison." 

Jim turned back. She was looking at him, if not quite coolly then definitely assessing. 

"It's not often the most famous face in Cascade drops in." 

Ah. 

Twenty stores and three hours later he still hadn't forgotten that little encounter. And his credit card still retained its virginity. Which was probably a good thing. 

He stopped at Wonder Burger, inhaling the smoke and reminding himself that Blair would be out tonight, celebrating with a bunch of other rookies, so he could eat take-out of his choice in front of a TV set to channels ditto. And there wouldn't be anyone to say different - 

(Or suggest better places to eat or weird salads to try or sing the stupid 'my choice of cholesterol' song that always got hummed when Jim didn't want to eat what Blair wanted to eat) 

Jim looked at his reflection in the windows and shrugged. Went home. 

Stir-fry wasn't too bad, even with tofu and bean sprouts as the main ingredients. And Blair had left the TV on National Geographic, which was having a special on the mating habits of bonobo apes. Jim was impressed enough to take a couple of notes before switching channels. 

Blair turned up at 11, while Jim was watching Casablanca dubbed in Chinese and attempting to understand all the dialogue by lip-reading. 

"Hey," Blair closed the door carefully, but not too carefully as Jim noted, alert to the whiff of beer and slight tang of vomit that indicated someone in the recent past had attempted to clear their head the old-fashioned way. But not Blair, Jim decided, as his roommate tossed his keys into the basket by the door and walked over to the couch in a relatively straight line. 

"Had a good time?" Jim moved slightly to make room for Blair who sat down and leaned his head back, exhaling. 

"Yeah. Turn that thing up a little, I love this part." 

"It's in Cantonese." 

Blair reached over Jim, snagged the remote and turned the volume up, listening intently for three seconds before shaking his head. "Mandarin, not Cantonese." 

"You speak Chinese now?" 

"I know enough to figure out what not to order in restaurants." Blair hunched his shoulders, rotating them slightly to work out the kinks. "Argh. Never again." 

Jim sniffed. "You need to shower." 

"Yeah." 

"You really, really need to shower." 

"You can dial down for a while, man." Adding obligingly, "After this, I promise. But this is my favorite part." 

"What, we'll always have Paris?" 

Blair nodded, lips moving in sync with the words coming off the screen. With some bemusement Jim realized Blair was mimicking the Chinese, not the original English. 

It sounded good. And maybe Jim knew the movie better than he expected but he could almost understand what Blair was saying. 

Blair got up at the first commercial, flexing his fingers slightly. "I hate to say this but you're right. I need a shower. Got forty new bruises in places I don't even wanna think about." 

"And why's that?" 

Blair grinned. "Let's just say Cooper got a little... feisty while we were putting him to bed." 

Jim blinked. " _Aaron_ Cooper?" 

Blair chuckled. "No, not what you're thinking... he had this crazy idea that he was the Macho Man and Jones and I were tag-teaming up against him." Off Jim's look, "Professional wrestling?" 

Jim nodded. After another minute spent staring at the screen, Blair shrugged and headed to his room, rotating his arms to work the stiffness out of his shoulders. Jim watched him for a second, then turned back to Casablanca. 

He wondered if he could piggyback lip-reading onto aural stimulation to learn Mandarin. Then again he suspected quite a few things got lost in translation. 

Blair re-appeared in the corner of his vision, wrapped in towels and tying a turban over his head. "Cream rinse," he explained on his way to the bathroom. "I intend to have at least one graduation picture taken with perfect hair." He shut the door decisively, re-opened it and stuck his head out. "Have you been using my shampoo?" 

Jim raised an eyebrow. "Have you been using my soap?" 

"Point taken." 

The door shut again. 

* * *

"Alright people, listen up." Simon cleared his throat. Beside him, one Detective Blair Sandburg shifted slightly, trying to suppress the shy, idiotic grin beaming from his face. "As you all know, this is Detective Sandburg. He'll be joining us from today." 

A smattering of applause, a chorus of hoots and Blair ducked his head, obviously pleased. In his corner Jim winced. Not a speech, not a speech, please no, not a speech... 

Simon patted Blair on the shoulder. "Alright Sandburg, you're with Ellison." He looked up and scowled. "Why do I see people not working?" 

Jim breathed again. Someone groaned - Jim figured it was Brown - and Taggart whispered 'what, no speech?' but his colleagues started picking up their tasks again, momentum slowly building and covering the remnants of tension with ordinary white noise. 

Blair came over to Jim's desk, grin a little more enthusiastic. "Hey." 

"Hey." Jim was stumped for a second. He'd thought about this moment for about a dozen times in the last hour alone, half-entertaining the idea of coming up with some brilliant, emotional speech about brothers-in-arms and camaraderie and shaking the kid's hand, but it seemed cheesy and unnecessary considering that the only difference between the man standing in front of him now and his partner of three years was a gold shield and a paycheck. Oh, and shorter hair, though that was the only part of the package Jim regretted more than Blair did. 

Blair bounced slightly on the balls of his toes. "So." 

"So." Jim felt himself stick out his arm and smile slowly as Blair reached out his own. 

They shook hands and Jim patted Blair on his cheek wondering if maybe now he could try for the emotional brilliance. He settled for, "We've got paperwork to fill." 

"Some welcome this is," but Blair leaned over to look at the foot high stack. "Okay, that looks -" 

"Sandy?" 

Megan Connor had come up behind them and was standing a little off center, holding a rectangular box wrapped in subdued lime green. 

"Hey." Blair turned to her, smile a little warmer, heart slightly faster and Jim automatically widened his nostrils to check for a musk increase. 

Musk increased. Well, well... 

"I thought this might be appropriate for today, being special and all." She handed Blair the box. 

"Hey, wow, um, thanks." Blair jiggled his gift slightly. "Can I open it?" 

"Sure," and Megan watched as Blair unwrapped it carefully, nervousness making him work slowly, peeling each layer with the deft indelicacy of someone using his fingers for tweezers. Jim zoomed in on Blair's trembling hands and gave up with a scowl. 

"Give that to me Sandburg, I've disarmed bombs in less time -" Jim stopped, his outstretched hand falling limp, the offer of help dying even as twin gazes swung towards him, eyes widening in surprise. 

Jim blinked. 

Shit. No way. 

Was this a _moment_? 

Blair and Connor looked at him, Blair holding his gift slightly in towards his chest as though shielding it from Jim's lascivious gaze. Connor just... looked. 

"Uh, sorry," Jim backed off and moved behind the desk, settling in his chair, thoughts whirling. 

He'd just interrupted a moment. A _moment_. Between Sandburg and Connor. Who'da thunk... 

Jim fiddled with the pens on his desk, rearranging them in order of color and need of refill. A quick peek from the corner of his eye showed him that the couple in front of him had returned to their earlier positions, eyes locked front and center. 

"Oh wow," as Blair drew out a sketchpad, brushes and a box of oils. "Wow, Megan, I mean, this is -" 

"Call it a memento." 

"A memento," Blair grinned and so did Connor. After a beat she said, somewhat shyly, "You know, I've been taking some lessons." 

"Really? Wow, that's great, yeah..." Blair busied himself putting the things down neatly on the desk. Jim marked the slight rise in color as he looked up at Megan, almost stammering. "So, you think maybe, maybe I could get some lessons too?" 

"I don't see why not. The instructor's a friend of my father's, we could go and talk to him, maybe?" 

"Maybe, yeah. Yeah, that'd be cool." 

They stood a while, grinning slightly at each other. Jim suppressed the urge to blow a raspberry and yell, "Get a room!" Then again, he didn't want them to think he was eavesdropping. Because he wasn't - not exactly eavesdropping, just... hell, only someone deaf and blind to body language would be unable to follow what was happening barely two feet away, in broad daylight. 

"Well, I," 

"Well, you," 

They both spoke at once, and laughed uncertainly at the same time. Megan managed to speak her line second time around. 

"I should be working on the Nicholson files. Looks like you've got plenty to keep you occupied today." 

Blair nodded. "Yeah, yeah. So, um, maybe... you want to get some coffee later? So we can talk about the art thing." 

"Oh yeah, yeah... Um, later, yeah?" 

"Later." Blair watched her leave, a sort of soft wistfulness still lingering in his eyes as he walked back to Jim, plopping down in a chair. 

Jim cleared his throat. "You want to get started on the pink stack and I'll take the green?" 

"No problem Jim," Blair leaned back, one hand crawling dazed around the desk, blindly seeking the requisite forms. 

Jim stuck a pen in Blair's hand and nudged his chair right. "Pink stack. That-a-way." 

"I hear you," Blair's voice was soft and happy as he reached out for the first form of the day. 

Jim watched Blair's hand zoom in and out of focus, limb to random concatenation of cells, blurred to diamond-cut definition. Blinking slightly to ground himself, he turned back to his own mountain of paper. 

Green, green, fibrous mats of cellulose with ragged strands of dye, uneven threads of coloring running through texture... thirsty holes that sucked up the fluid slowly oozing from the pen in his hand... 

"Jim." 

" _Jim._ " 

Urgent whisper: sibilant hiss. How the hell could anyone hiss a name spelled without 's'? 

" _Jim!_ " accompanied by a swat to his shoulder and fingers pinching his biceps hard. 

"OW! " Jim glowered, rubbed the aching muscle. "Jesus, Sandburg, warn a guy, won't you?" 

"Hey, sorry man, but what the hell were you doing, zoning on _writing_? You've never done that before." 

Jim shrugged. "Maybe it's the meds." He was still on a couple of painkillers to ease the ache from the bullet wound in his leg. 

"Maybe..." Blair sounded uncertain. 

Jim massaged his temples. "Forget it, minor glitch in an otherwise beautiful Monday." He cuffed his partner's head lightly. "Having fun yet?" 

Blair grinned. "Oh yeah, yeah. Two hours on the job and fifty years of secondary growth forest sacrificed to the altar of bureaucracy, what's not to love." 

"Yeah, well," Jim paused. Two hours? 

"How long was I out?" 

Blair shook his head. "I have _no_ idea, my friend. All I know is that I looked up and there you were." His brow furrowed. "Not a good thing." 

"I'll survive." Jim looked down at the incomplete form in his hand, abstractedly noting that ink molecules settled nicely in the holes between cellulose, slowly but definitely staining individual fibers. It was kind of cool and he thought Blair might be interested. "Hey Blair," cocking his head slightly to trace the drip and flow of ink from his pen, "I can see the words forming on paper." 

After seconds passed with no response, Jim looked up to find Blair staring at him. 

"What?" 

Blair shook his head. "Man, whatever it is you're taking, you're taking too much." He opened the drawer and rummaged inside. "I have your allergy sheet somewhere - maybe we can figure out how to decrease your dosage." 

Jim shut him up with a look and pointedly swallowed two ibuprofens. 

A couple of hours later Blair was helping Connor figure out search parameters so Jim figured he was on his own for lunch. When he did the polite thing and asked if he could grab either of them a sandwich, Connor shook her head, no, but Blair looked up, pupils wide. 

"Hey, give me a minute and I'll join you." 

Jim gave him a minute before walking to the elevator. Blair caught up with him thirty seconds later. 

"Whoa, hey! I said _wait_. Did you forget or something?" punching Jim's shoulder. "Well I haven't forgotten that you owe me lunch, don't think I have." 

Jim pressed the button and listened for the sound of the elevator ascending. "When did that happen?" 

"Weekend when I beat you playing Scrabble." 

"Only because you cheated." 

"I do not cheat." 

"Scrabble was meant to be played in English. When you use obscure Sumerian terms, it's called cheating." 

"Hey, is it my fault Webster's recognizes them as common nouns now?" 

They stepped into the elevator, Blair rubbing his hands in glee. "So I'm thinking Thai, there's that little restaurant off Southside, brilliant place, even you loved their tom yam." 

Jim nodded over his shoulder. "What about Connor?" 

Blair wrinkled his eyebrows. "What about Connor? You owe her lunch too? How many people you been playing with, Jim?" 

"Never mind." 

Jim ended up paying for Thai but didn't order the tom yam. Too spicy for his still uncertainly zooming senses but luckily Blair was far too busy impressing the waitress with his knowledge of the seven spices traditional to Eastern culture to notice. 

Blair beamed as the waitress left, turning to Jim. "So, what's with the lemon chicken?" 

Ah. 

Jim drank all the water in his glass. "Nothing. Just... been having some trouble recently." 

"What kind?" 

"A sort of zoom-in zoom-out effect. Nothing I can't handle, just thought it'd be better to go easy on the sensory input for a while." 

Blair's brow wrinkled. "Zoom-in zoom-out? You mean, like suddenly you see things in incredible detail and then back from a further perspective?" 

"Something like that." The waitress refilled his glass, waited while Jim drank the contents in another swallow and repeated the performance. Blair watched, mouth slightly open. 

"Are you just thirsty or...?" 

"Thirsty." 

"Okay." Blair toyed with his fork, tapping it meditatively. "So when did this start?" 

Jim shrugged. "Not sure. Guess I only noticed it when I saw this fish." 

"Fish." 

"Fish. Are you having trouble with your hearing?" 

Blair leaned back, lips quirking. "No, no, no trouble. We can do fish. Fish. An unusual sort of totem, but it could be related to the feline imagery that normally represents your animal spirit. Still, a fish..." 

"Blair, this wasn't an animal spirit, this was a glass fish. A fish made of glass." 

Blair grinned. "Your subconscious has really interesting manifestations, I'll give you that, Jim." 

Jim leaned an elbow on the table, pillowing his head on the fist and massaging as unobtrusively as possible. "Like I said, it's not a problem. Just takes a little getting used to." In other words, not something he wanted to talk about and this conversation was getting irritating. Fast. 

Blair took the hint. "You sure?" 

"Yeah. Actually it's kind of interesting." 

"Hmm." 

Jim pointedly looked at Blair's right hand. It was using a fork to trace intricate designs on the tablecloth. "I think they need that back, Toulouse-Lautrec." 

Blair stopped sheepishly. "Jim, that is way below the belt. Just because I'm shorter than you and more creative," 

"I'd stick with short." Jim maneuvered Blair's glass towards himself, "I think Connor likes you," offering it as compensation before gulping down the man's water. 

"Yeah? You think?" Blair took a cocktail napkin out of the holder and began making origami shapes out of it. Jim watched interestedly. 

"Is that supposed to be a dog?" 

"A peacock actually. You know, Megan's really into the mystical side of things. She's been for tarot readings for herself." 

"Sounds like the kind of girl you could bring home to your Mom." Jim grinned. "The operative word being 'your'." 

Blair chuckled. "Yeah, Naomi... Naomi's great, yeah, I think she and Megan would get along really well." He looked up. "Is that our order?" 

It was, but Jim didn't manage to taste a single bite of his. He ate it all anyway, even managing to contribute intelligently to Blair's discourse on the similarities between the indigenous foods of South East Asia and how that reflected the overall psychology of the population. 

Simon called them both in once they got back from lunch. 

"Gentlemen," pouring them each a mug of coffee. Jim got the one with a cute Japanese cow and winced. 

"Discrimination, Simon?" 

"It matches your face. Shut up and be grateful Ellison. Sandburg?" handing him the normal, white _bigger_ cup with the Cascade PD logo embossed on the side. 

"Thanks Simon." Blair sipped appreciatively. "Hey, you know we got two of these in the orientation package, except they were done in blue and gold." 

"Mine's been around longer. So, you ready for your first _official_ job?" 

Blair gulped, swallowed too much hot coffee, choked and gasped out something that sounded like 'oh yeah-argh!' 

Simon grinned. "I like to see a man enthusiastic about his work." 

Jim rotated his mug, frowning. "Did you change the filters today?" 

"Yes I did - what? What? Is something wrong with my machine?" 

"It could be grease - no, wait that's the sugar dissolving." 

"I never put sugar in there." 

"Something though..." Jim felt a touch on his arm as Blair spoke up. "His vision's been weird all day, Simon. He sees things at microscopic levels and then zooms out. Jim, maybe you're seeing the water separate from the coffee?" 

"Nah... oh wait." Jim grinned in relief. "Hazelnut-flavored, right? I see the hazelnut as an extra film of grease. It sparkles." 

Simon frowned. "Jim, is this vision thing going to be a problem?" 

Jim shook his head. "No, don't think so." 

"Really." Simon looked at Blair, who shrugged. 

" _Really_ ," Jim emphasized, earning a look from his boss. 

"Fine. Alright, here we go," handing them both files and opening his own. "The Cascade Museum of Art is hosting a special exhibition as part of a national fundraising activity for the handicapped," 

Blair exhaled ecstatically. Simon paused. 

"Did you just swear in my office, Detective?" 

"Huh?" Blair looked up from his folder. "No, no sir, I said 'Chrysler'. Anton Chrysler." 

Jim blinked. "The soul of glass guy?" 

"You know about him?" 

"I did go to college, Sandburg." 

"Gentlemen?" Simon looked from one to the other. "The Museum's receiving a shipment of twenty pieces on loan from New York and his honor the Mayor insists that our finest be on hand to help receive them. You'll be point for security detail, and Sandburg, Ellison, since you seem to know so much about Chrysler, you'll be happy to know I'm assigning you to the exhibition proper." 

"We're getting an original Chrysler," Blair chanted in a sort of reverent trance. "God, the man was a genius. I once spent an entire semester doing a paper on him. It was really tragic." 

"Your paper or the man?" Jim asked interestedly. 

Simon held up a hand. "I don't want to hear any of it. Out. Shoo. Go make him a website or something." 

"Really? On PD time? Simon, that is by far the most generous -" Jim inserted a finger in Blair's collar and hauled him outside. 

"Wait here," and went back into the office, closing the door behind him. 

Simon raised an eyebrow. "What?" 

Jim shrugged. "Thank you for this morning, sir. For not making a huge production about it or anything." 

"Well he's a detective, not the prodigal son. Now don't you two have folders to read?" Simon handed him the ones they'd forgotten. 

Jim nodded and exited. Blair was at Connor's desk, waving his arms enthusiastically. 

Jim caught the words, 'legend... glass...' and shrugged mentally. 

He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. 

* * *

At 5 p.m. two brown hands gripped the desk in front of Jim and an eager face popped up over the top of the monitor. 

"Hey Jim, Megan and I are going to grab a couple of beers, shoot some pool, you want to come along?" 

Jim looked up from the computer. "Oh, I was just going to go home after I finish running this -" 

"What's that?" Blair craned around the front of the table, exhibiting yogic dexterity in his attempt to see what was onscreen. " _Whoof_. I'm gonna come around back." 

Jim shifted his chair to make room for Blair who pulled up his own. 

"Glass? You're looking into glass?" 

"Crystal structures; molecular lattices, that sort of thing." Jim inhaled, aware that Blair had shifted from hyperactive into quietly hypersensitive mode, analogous to the one Jim used in a preliminary data survey at every crime scene, except Blair was focused on only one object. 

Jim Ellison. 

Jim wondered why he'd never really noticed it before, the normal effulgence of nervous energy suddenly reducing, warming; the way Blair's breathing slowed, his heart pumped gently, the way the infra-red given off by his partner's body seemed to calm and flow around Jim, cocooning him. 

Jim shifted his chair back slightly, out of the Sandburg zone, feeling the loss of warmth. 

Blair reached into his pocket and put on his reading glasses. "Crystal structures... please don't tell me this is what I think it is." 

"Since I can't read your mind..." 

"Mm." Blair reached out and moved Jim's hand atop the mouse, clicking and opening some links in new windows. "Okay, okay... yeah. Yeah." He sighed softly and removed his hand from Jim's. "So... you know the Chrysler story?" 

"Sort of." 

"Jim, Anton Chrysler had a form of hyper-acute vision that allowed him to see right into the heart of certain structures, mainly the brittle, translucent crystals. He called it 'looking into the soul of glass'." 

"I've heard that." 

"Right..." Blair took off his glasses and rubbed them against his sleeve before replacing them. "I didn't think of it before, call me an idiot. Your sight's been zooming deep and out again, right? You're seeing molecular, right?" 

Jim shrugged. "That's what I was trying to confirm." 

"Ah. Ah, shit. Shit, I'm sorry. Okay." Blair paused. "Look, you can't let yourself do that... not for too long, okay? Look at what happened to Chrysler. The man went blind." 

"Sandburg, you should know the meaning of circumstantial evidence as well as I do." 

"Jim." 

"I'll be careful." 

"You better." The grin was back on Blair's face, "And this just reinforces my conviction that you're not to be left alone for a minute. No, no, no, I'm not letting you out of my sight, man. Come on, beer and other masculine bonding rituals await." 

"Connor's a woman. And we've gone to bars before." 

"Ah, but this is traditional, see, a routine initiation of the newcomer." Pause. "Please? Oh come on Jim!" 

Jim did. 

* * *

"Connor, you couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if you paid it to stand still!" 

"Since I'm not trying to hit a barn," Megan shifted angle slightly and released her cue. The striker hit, smacked into red and fell into the pocket. She turned smugly. "Your money where your mouth is, Detective?" 

Jim inclined his head graciously and paid up to the sound of chuckles. 

"Man, I cannot believe this. Jim Ellison defeated?" Blair set his beer on a side table and came forward, almost elbowing Jim in the stomach. "You have got to show me how you did that." 

"Practice," Megan shrugged, but indicated Blair should move in front of her. 

Jim retreated into the shadows, picking up his own beer and noting morosely that it was still half-full. Maybe he'd consider drinking it this time. 

"Okay, now leave your upper arms loose. Loose, Sandy!" Megan rubbed Blair's elbows to demonstrate. He laughed and looked back at her. 

Jim paused, lips still on the rim of the beer bottle. Blair, his right hip digging into Megan's abdomen, her arms around his waist, hands moving up to demonstrate the shot... Blair stepping back almost accidentally into Megan, her hands on his directing the cue... 

Shot. 

"YES!" Blair crowed, raising his arms in triumph and high-fiving Megan. "Megan, you're a genius." 

"That I am. Hey Jimbo," she turned and smiled, the cocky self-assured grin of a woman in her element and loving it, "Want a rematch? I'll even let you choose the handicap." 

Jim swallowed his beer and considered possible answers. Megan _was_ an attractive woman, attractive to any man who was unable to sharpen his vision to the point where one look at her lips, at the slight pats and whorls of lipstick and the edginess of just off-shade lip liner was enough to cause a headache. And maybe her voice was soothing and sultry to some ears, though it reverberated through his like the 1812 overture after a night of hard drinking, and as for the way her mascara flecked off and dusted imperceptibly over her nose - 

Jim smiled as realistically as possible and said, "No thanks, Connor, I think you left me with just enough pocket change for another beer." Very politely leaving out any mention of how her perfume was making him sick. 

Several beers and a pounding migraine later, Jim took another look at Blair half-clasping Megan as he taught her how to set up trick shots, and decided it was time to leave. He took two more shots for the look of things, argued a headache, made jokes about old bones and young blood and got out of there as fast as possible. Blair looked him over carefully but didn't push, for which Jim was grateful. 

He made it to the parking lot before the retching began, making the drive home one long torture. 

Arriving at an empty loft was marginally worse. 

* * *

The loft was supposedly structured in layers of soft clarity; scent, texture, color and muted sounds overlapping and falling into each other to make this a place a man tired of controlling his hypersensitivity could come back to and unwind without having to worry about compensation or overdose. It was a joint project, project 'Ellison's castle' as Blair called it, and all Jim had to do was complain or wince and next day Blair would be storing pickles in airtight containers or reminding Jim to replace the filters in the air conditioner. 

(Or convincing Jim that really strong smelling herbs were an essential part of salvaging his karmic balance) 

Jim's vision blanked in and out as he stumbled up to his bed, searching for a blanket, a shirt to ground him and reassert his presence in reality. 'Normal' reality, not this uncertain blend of back and forth. 

Swaying on the balls of his feet, Jim reached out blindly, grabbed a shirt from the laundry hamper and inhaled, reminding himself who he was. A man, whole, not a dissolute blend of chemicals and molecules in an infinite universe - imprint, imprint, scent signature imprinted... 

_Too much._

His own scent was normally too dull, faded to background, but suddenly he was hyper-aware of his own existence, of the sweat on his skin, of the moisture on his tongue and the scent and taste of his own bile. Essence of self, distilled and concentrated, too much for any man to bear. 

Swearing and ripping off his clothes, Jim braced himself for a second, willing touch and smell to dim, to go down so he could attempt the stairs again, remembering Blair's instructions about sensory overload, remembering that when all five senses were going haywire, it made sense to focus and overload one circuit so the others would have time to recuperate. 

Jim closed his eyes and let the darkness hit him like a physical blow. 

Cosmic rays, infra-red, his own thermal signature - Jim saw them all outlined in colorless lines and nameless colors, stretching and defining his environment. There, a chair, there, his bed, in front, his hand glowing purple and red and slightly blue at the center where a nerve was firing madly. 

Jim took a step forward, eyes tightly shut and seeing in the dark. 

He made it down to Blair's bedroom, walking by blind sight detail, feeling uncomfortably around for something that might help him. Sight, sight, this all started with sight but there wasn't Blair - there wasn't anyone else to focus on and take the pressure off, so he'd have to try something else. 

Snatching the blanket off Blair's bed, Jim let scent overload. 

Vanilla, orange, matchwood, liquor, salt and bronze and the elusive tang of copper; from Blair's blanket a scratchy wet smell that could be residual sweat or (Jim refused to consider it) other fluids trapped within the cotton. 

Jim inhaled carefully, letting detail pile onto detail, overwhelming him to the point of meaningless noise that built to a piercing crescendo and just when he thought his ears would implode, stimuli crashed over him like a tsunami and spread into a soothing array of quiet ripples. 

... 

... 

Jim opened his eyes. 

His loft was back and so was he. Shaking, but definitely. Completely him. 

"Fuck." 

The whisper hit random air molecules and blended into hissing silence. Jim raised the blanket to his lips, controlling himself with an effort, needing to lean, just for a moment. Just for a second, not a weakness, hell, it wasn't like he was going to run crying into Blair's arms or anything, but he could take one moment, then he'd get up, shower and do something to confirm his independence. Like maybe throw up again, nothing like puking your guts up to remind yourself that you do have guts of your own. 

Pretending he didn't know exactly what he was going to do, Jim got up and lurched unsteadily towards the shower. 

* * *

By the time Blair returned, Jim was clean, relieved of tension, wrapped in old sweats and a comfortable afghan, eyes closed and listening to Santana with every appearance of contentment. 

"Hey." 

Jim turned his head in response to the greeting, mouth half open, eyes still closed but receiving other types of radiation, cosmic rays, infra-red, thermal signatures outlined in colorless lines and nameless colors that focused on the new heat point throbbing at the corner of Blair's mouth. 

A bruise, no, no a _bite_ that glistened as Blair moistened it periodically with the tip of his tongue. 

**_FUCK_**

Jim exhaled, and let his body relax, fighting the conflicting scenarios in his imagination, all of which started with him grabbing Blair and thrusting him against the nearest wall. 

Fuck. No, no fuck... 

He bit down on words, tightening his lips and keeping his eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. It seemed to work, because Blair sighed and took off his shoes, walking carefully in his socks to avoid waking his partner. 

"Jim?" 

Blair stopped at the couch, and Jim felt the weight of eyes on him, affection or tolerant amusement, he wasn't sure what. He didn't care to see. Blind sight was too detailed anyway. 

Finally Blair sighed and went to his own room. Jim turned his head, unconsciously still tracking. 

Soft whispers of cloth sliding and Jim realized Blair was undressing. 

He bit his lip and continued paying attention. 

Hearing, scent and blind sight detail... Jim used every resource at his disposal to keep up the pretense of sleep and still follow Blair through undressing and showering, jealously treasuring each movement that revealed new flesh to his recognition. Imprint, imprint, imprint... 

He shut off everything but hearing while Blair showered, guiltily following the soft sounds of flesh on flesh and rub of cloth, letting imagination supply the details. Slowly Jim's heart stopped racing. 

The anger took a while longer to go down and when it did, it was replaced. Only for a while though, Jim reassured himself, fisting his hand and thinking blank. Only for a while. 

It helped that Blair was humming tunelessly as he showered, since while Jim of course wasn't - aroused - by any... anything, the sound of Sandburg singing was better than a dozen cold showers. 

The sound of running water stopped and Jim heard wet feet pad across the floor. Warned, he concentrated on not reacting as the afghan was pulled up around him. Managed not to shudder away from the gentle pat Blair gave him. He didn't even move as Blair turned the stereo off, telling himself that he could damn well suffer tonight. 

He stayed on the couch all night, letting aches develop in his back and body, filling scent and sound memory with the tiniest details of Blair asleep; the scratchiness as his body shifted into a comfortable position, the slight sweat that broke out in the midst of his deepest REM - the release of musk and acrid smell as Blair dreamed about something, or someone... Jim took in and memorized it all, determined to drown in the minutiae of Blair's existence, telling himself that the only reason he was doing this was to get lost in a mass of confusing, unappealing details. Because... because need wasn't something he'd ever feel again, but maybe this was a Sentinel thing, like zooming senses, unreasonable but present and to be dealt with as quickly and cleanly as possible. And Jim was good at dealing. 

"Mm..." Blair whispered and snuggled deeper into his pillow. Jim felt a fist clench around his heart, wondering if that was a name or the beginning of one, or if Blair was just. You know. Humming. 

"mm..." 

Softer now, texture on fabric, gentle snorts of breathing, the movement of a hand and the kicking of a leg... the rise and fall of contradictory thermocouples as Blair chilled and flushed through different dreams - at least he thought that was Blair, but it might be their infra-red auras interacting and that was a disturbing thought, that he could use a phrase like auras interacting and mean it, too much time spent with the hippie, that was it, yeah... except the hippie was his partner and always would be and while the sounds of a human body in repose aren't exactly pretty, Jim found himself cognizant but not nauseated by the uneasy burbling of digestive and circulatory systems since the soft overlap of breath following breath was actually kind of soothing. 

Which was disturbing. That he was soothed by someone's digestive system. 

That he was upset by - 

Six am found Jim wide awake with a hard on and a headache. Even if he shut his eyes tight, pressing eyelids against eyeballs, the pressure didn't prevent him from seeing. Making pictures in his head. 

"Wstfgle..." 

Blair turned over in his sleep and Jim found himself grinning reluctantly at a mental picture of his partner whuffling into his pillows. He probably drooled. It was probably cute. 

Right. No point thinking about it, so Jim got up, ignoring a heavy dick and a heavier heart to set a pot of coffee on before going to the bathroom. 

He showered religiously, used his own soap and definitely didn't jerk off in the shower. 

It almost hurt anyway, listening to Blair breathe. 

* * *

An hour later, Blair stumbled out of his room, half-heartedly scratching his stubble. 

"C'fee." 

"Shower," Jim gently steered his roommate in the direction of the bathroom. 

Blair looked at the doorknob like it was some strange Japanese instrument of torture with the instructions written in Icelandic. Sighing, Jim reached over and opened the door for him. 

"Hope you remember how the rest works because I'm not scrubbing your back for you." 

"Gah," the rest of Blair's mumble was lost as the door closed and Jim returned to beating eggs, trying not to blush at his own joke, trying not to process the fact that Blair's stubble poked out from cheeks that looked strangely soft and yet hard and planar, a sensory contradiction his fingers longed to explore. 

Said fingers dropped the eggbeater, and as Jim reached down to pick it up, he remembered how the feel of sleep-moist cotton clinging to Blair's back actually seemed to ignite his nerve endings, starting from fingertips all the way up to his arm, setting tingling vibrations into motion. 

Jim raised his hand and inhaled slightly, imprinting, then flushed, washed the eggbeater and his hands twice at the sink before drinking another cup of coffee for strength. 

His mouth was dry. Literally. 

Jim was contemplating his fifth cup of the day when Blair emerged, toweling his hair and blinking furiously. 

"Sum ergo cogito. I exist I think." He looked around. "Where's the coffee?" 

"Drowning the algae," but Jim handed Blair a cup without any squiggly things inside and watched as his partner inhaled it contentedly, flexing throat muscles and Adam's apple in an intriguing display. 

"Ahh... bless you Jim." Blair smacked his lips and proffered his cup. "More." 

Jim indicated the half empty pot. "We have to meet the curator in ninety minutes, so you have just enough time," 

"I'm on it," Blair slung the towel around his neck and went to pour himself another cup. "Man, never try to out-drink an Australian. Or at least not Megan, she's... god, the woman has superhuman reserves of endurance." 

"I see that," Jim remarked dryly, unconsciously rubbing his lower lip. "Got in pretty late last night, didn't you?" 

"Oh yeah, yeah," Blair grinned. "But a good night." 

"Certainly looks like it." Jim sat at the table and stabbed a fork into his toast. It didn't fight back. 

"Mm," Blair spooned eggs onto another plate and joined Jim. "How's the headache?" 

"Fine." 

"You're getting monosyllabic on me again, that doesn't indicate 'fine'." 

"I'm great, really." Jim plastered a grin on his face and felt his lips crack with the effort. "So tell me about last night." Details. Lots of details. Enough details to gag and choke and completely destroy any residual - feeling. 

Blair shrugged. "Nothing really. Except we got to drinking tequila shots and I bit too hard on a lemon. Ow." He poked his tongue at the bruise on his lip. "Like I said, never try to out-drink an Australian." 

Jim pushed his eggs into a mountain on top of his toast, feeling suddenly tired and every year of forty. "Come on man, don't play games with me." 

Blair put his fork down carefully. "Excuse me Jim?" 

"Look, Connor's a lovely woman, Blair, you just keep your nose clean and tiptoe around the anti-fraternization rules." Jim felt the smile fall apart. "Hell, since she's here on exchange they don't even apply, do they?" He pushed his chair back. "I'm getting dressed. I suggest you do the same." 

Blair half-rose. "Jim," 

Jim put out a hand. "We're running late," he said, pointedly looking at the eggs not at Blair before jogging up the stairs to his bedroom. 

Downstairs he heard Blair sit down, attempt two more mouthfuls of egg and push them away. Then silence. 

Jim listened. 

He heard Blair go into his room, picked up enough clues to figure Blair was dressing before ruthlessly pushing hearing down to optimal human sensitivity. 

When Jim came downstairs again after thirty minutes of pretending to choose shirts and pants, Blair was seated on the edge of the couch, waiting for him. 

Ah. 

"Car in the shop again," Jim asked with supreme indifference. 

"Nope. I was waiting for you." 

"Fine. Let's go." 

Blair sat still, swinging his legs slightly. Jim cocked his head at the door. "We'll be late." 

Blair shook his head as though asking a question that really puzzled him. "Do you ever wonder why we take separate cars in to work? And drive together anyway?" 

"Do we? I hadn't noticed." Jim shrugged on his jacket, felt in his pockets, found his keys. 

"Jim," 

"What, is there a fuel shortage?" The words came out hard and immediate, and Blair's eyes widened, lips still parted to speak. 

Jim moved to the door and took out his keys. He felt the air move as Blair stood and came up behind him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to set off his hair-triggers. 

"I was just going to say that today it's because I have to attend a bar mitzvah, so if I took my car I wouldn't slow you down." 

A bar mitzvah? 

Jim found he'd turned to face his friend, fingers closed around his keys, rubbing to recognize the serial numbers carved into them. 

"A bar mitzvah?" 

Blair grinned slightly. "Eli called and asked me last week." 

"Stoddard?" 

Blair nodded, cheeks flushing. "Yeah... apparently it's his oldest grandson's bar mitzvah and I'm, well I'd really like to be there, you know. His asking me and all... means a lot." 

"Look you don't..." 

(Don't.) 

(Don't what?) 

Jim fought for words, gave up. Settled on, "I think it's great he asked." 

"Yeah. And well," Blair fished in his backpack, "I even found I have a yarmulke." 

"You have a yarmulke?" 

"Uh-huh." Blair raised his chin proudly. "I also have a rabbi, or would have one if I attended temple regularly, but while I respect the uh, the questioning and expository attributes of my heritage it still kind of excludes screwballs and goofy characters, so I guess that leaves me out..." he grinned hopefully and Jim found himself grinning back. 

"Oh you're not Goofy, chief. Donald maybe, especially when you do the," Jim made his palms flap, "Runaway tongue thing, but definitely not Goofy." 

"Yeah, he's too tall for one. Uh, Jim?" 

"Yeah?" Hoping his internal confusion wasn't translating verbally. 

"Jim. How's the headache?" 

Jim shrugged. "Getting better," held the door open for the both of them. "Come on or we'll be late." 

* * *

The drive to the museum wasn't too bad, at least cars didn't suddenly loom gigantic and the gravel in the road didn't distract Jim from the business of driving. Maybe it was the coffee, or maybe the fact that Jim was too busy monitoring his partner's progress in the rear view mirror to worry about anything else. 

As they pulled into the museum's parking lot, Jim made a mental note to check Blair's driving sheet and find out which fool instructor at the academy had let him pass. The last time he'd looked, playing chicken with 14-ton trucks was not the act of a sane man. Unless said man was in his own truck of course. 

Blair honked merrily and pulled into the vacant space behind Jim. 

Jim sighed, pulled the key out of the ignition and leaned out of his truck, waving to catch Blair's attention. "I don't think you count as a VIP, Sandburg." 

"Relax, Jim, I'm sure they won't mind. Besides, this is the only space available in the parking lot." Blair got out of his car, smiling reassuringly. 

Jim jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Move it before _I_ have to give you a ticket." 

"You're not even in Traffic." Sighing, Blair stepped back into his car and started up. "Okay, Mr. Not-a-Big-Shot, open up those sensors and tell me where I should park this?" 

Jim squinted. "I see a space opening up... next Thursday." 

"Funny." Blair revved the engine. "Try again." 

"Down the center, turn left, about 300 meters. I'll wait here." 

"Gotcha." 

Jim rubbed his eyes carefully, waiting for Blair to return. He hadn't lied, his headache was better, but there was a speck of dust in his right eye and he could feel the dust mites crawling over the surface. Disgusting. 

As his eye released enough moisture to wash the grit out, his ears caught the tap of Blair approaching. 

"Ready?" his partner called out. 

Jim nodded, put his cap back on and swung out of the truck, remembering to lock it carefully. They fell into step on their way up to the entrance. 

"So have you met Dr. Errol before?" 

Jim shook his head. "No, should I have?" 

"He's an expert on ancient Peruvian cultures, in fact I think he was in Lima around the time you were." 

"I was never in Lima." 

"Ah, but that's the official story, right?" 

Jim swatted Blair's shoulder. "Behave." 

"Sorry man, guess I'm just energized, you know?" 

"I've noticed." 

"Funny, though, considering my first day as an observer ended up with me helping you take down a gang of terrorists, I was kind of expecting something more, um, adrenaline worthy for my first day as a detective. Or the second." Blair jogged double time up the stairs, Jim following a little slower. 

"Just don't cross your fingers and pray for a hijacking attempt, Sandburg." 

Blair turned, shocked. "No way man, I would _never_ do something like that! Chrysler's works are historical artifacts! Hell, I'm dying to see what we'll be getting here." 

"I can tell." They showed their badges to the guard on duty and walked to the elevator. Jim pressed the button to summon it. "You really get off on Chrysler don't you?" 

Blair nodded. "It's his work, man, there's an element of, ah heck, I guess you could call it soul. Indigenous tribal art still retains some mysticism, that sense of awe that Cro-Magnon man must have had when he realized he was capturing reality, freezing it in effect, but most European artists? Nah. I think we've lost it, totally lost it." 

"Define 'it'." The doors opened and they got in. 

"It. You know. It." Blair sighed. "You'll know 'it' when you see it. You'll just know." 

"That certainly helps." 

"Jim, understanding the art and artifacts of a people are essential to understanding their -" 

"Psychology as a whole," 

" _Yes_ , their psychology as a whole. For example, certain religions might refuse to sculpt or paint their deities, since an attempt to restrain infinite power in a finite reality would be blasphemous. Others use imperfect, rough models, humanoid or other to represent their higher powers, since no amount of detail would be sufficient to represent what they thought of as gods, a very primal, tribal concept, especially if you consider the earliest idols found, they're just," Blair took a deep breath, describing graphic curves in the air, "Just rough sketches of womanhood, fertility, you know? Now Chrysler, Chrysler took the tangential approach. He's a very conventional, devout Orthodox Christian, but he maintained the highest standards of intricacy in his work, adding details, lots of layers and details because his theory was that even an attempt to approximate infinity would be close to worship and, " He shot Jim a suspicious look. "And why are you grinning at me?" 

"I like to hear you talk," and Jim stepped out of the elevator, enjoying how that one simple statement left his partner completely bereft of speech. 

For about two seconds. 

"You are seriously weird today," Blair muttered, picking up the pace to reach Jim's side just as the older detective knocked on a wooden door hung with a brass plate. 

"Come in." 

Jim opened the door. 

Philip Errol was a short, stocky man in his late sixties. He rose from his chair and shook both their hands. 

"Detectives Sandburg and Ellison," Jim performed the introductions. Errol nodded. 

"Please, take a seat. I suppose you're here so we can talk about the security detail for the exhibition on Friday. Well, gentlemen, I have the floor plans and a list all drawn up here..." Errol paused, drawing his brows together, looking carefully at the two of them while trying to make it obvious he wasn't doing so. 

There was an uncomfortably long silence before Jim spoke. 

"Dr. Errol? Is something wrong?" 

Errol smiled falsely and stood up again, forcing the detectives to their feet. 

"Actually yes, I've just remembered... unforgivable of me, I know, but yes, a prior engagement... perhaps I could speak to your Captain and arrange another more suitable time?" 

They were bowed out politely, the door closing firmly behind them. 

Jim very carefully didn't say anything as Blair cleared his throat. The words still sounded rusty when they finally came out. 

"Guess now's a bad time to mention Errol is a Professor Emeritus at Rainier, huh?" 

They walked out of the Museum in silence. 

* * *

"Shit. SHIT! Man, this sucks, this really, really SUCKS!" Blair thumped the steering wheel, got out of his car, kicked the door closed and banged his fists on the hood. 

300 meters away Jim winced. And didn't start up his truck. 

"Fucking stupid pile of... bucket of..." Blair rested both hands on the top of his car and laid his head between them. 

Jim listened. 

Blair growled into his palms, then lifted his head, took out his cell and dialed a number. 

Jim's phone beeped. 

"Ellison." 

"I need a lift Jim." A pause. "You're still in the parking lot aren't you?" 

Jim smiled, feeling his heart twist. "Coming to get you now." 

Blair clicked off. 

* * *

"Technically Errol is well within his rights to request a revision of the security detail..." 

"Tell us something we don't know, sir." 

Jim bumped Blair's shoulder. He shrugged it off with a muttered, "Give it a rest." 

Simon exhaled slowly. "Look, Blair -" 

"No, it's okay Simon. We knew this was going to happen sometime, if not now then tomorrow, if not Errol then someone else, so what the hey, right?" 

Jim had time to clench and unclench his fists twice in the silence that followed before Simon nodded. 

"Fine. I'll see you in court tomorrow." 

Blair stood up and began to walk out of the room. He stopped, turned to Jim. 

"Last I noticed this wasn't the PTA." 

"It's not." Jim raised his mug. "I want to finish my coffee." 

"Oh? Should I stay? Tell some funny stories?" 

"Gentlemen." Simon's softest tones cut in. "This is my office. I don't want either of you here right now. Is that clear?" 

Jim got to his feet. "Perfectly, sir." 

"Take the mug with you." 

The coffee tasted of acid but Jim drank it all down anyway, watching as Blair sat down and pulled out a stack of paperwork. 

"Asshole." 

"Which one of us?" 

Blair looked up. "Don't you have a deposition to fill?" 

"That's tomorrow." 

"Fine." 

Jim sat down. "Give me that." 

"Get your own." 

They compromised on half a stack each. 

Moments passed, filled only with the scratching sounds of pen on paper. Jim listened, waiting for Blair's wildly curving hand to slow to something approaching normal speed. When Blair left for the synagogue three hours later, Jim was still waiting, pretending to watch ink soak into paper. 

He waited till Blair's car was well out of the precinct before getting up himself. 

\-- 

"Detective Ellison." The woman smiled, coming round the counter. "Welcome back. How can I help you?" 

"I..." now that he was actually saying it, it didn't sound that bad. "I'm looking for a present. For a friend." 

"I see. Did you have anything in mind?" 

Jim shrugged. Jerked his head towards the display cabinet. "The fish?" 

Her smile grew sad. "I'm sorry, I should have explained. I keep it here for luck - it's more of a showpiece than anything else. I could never look my father in the face again if I let it go." 

Jim nodded, deflated. 

"How is your father? If you don't mind my asking." 

She grinned. "You _are_ good. He's quite well, actually. It _was_ his choice you know, in the end. He says all he really wanted was to be able to see his grandchildren." 

Jim nodded again. It made sense to him. It made a lot of sense. 

"Detective Ellison?" 

He looked up at her. She was watching him, he realized. And realized with a slight shock that he almost recognized that narrowing of irises, the layered and crystal gaze that cut through outer structure. 

"My father says he never regretted his decision. And I believe him." 

After a moment Jim asked, "You wouldn't happen to be related... know if your father ever... never mind." 

He was glad she didn't press the point. Only wished him, "I hope you find the right gift for your friend." 

Jim hoped so too. He didn't think it was in any store here. 

\-- 

He'd fallen asleep waiting. The door clicked to, waking him up. 

"You're back." 

"Hey." Blair stepped through the door, blinking slightly in the darkness. "'s there a reason you're lying in the dark?" 

"Not really." Jim lifted his head slightly. "I was taking a nap." 

"Okay." 

"Do you want light?" 

"Nah, this is fine." Blair came over and sat next to Jim who shifted slightly closer. 

"How was it?" 

Blair tilted his head, thinking. "It was good. A little uncomfortable. I avoided a lot of people." 

Jim said nothing. 

Blair cleared his throat. "Met Dr. Errol." 

... 

"It's okay. He's still alive." 

Jim grinned. Blair must have felt it because Jim saw him smile. 

"Listen -" 

"About today -" 

They broke off, laughing slightly. 

"You first," said Blair. 

Jim shrugged, self-conscious again. "I was just. You know. I'm sorry if I shouldn't have... no, I shouldn't have tried to pull that thing in Simon's office. It wasn't professional and it wasn't respecting you." 

Blair blinked. 

"Wow." 

Jim shrugged again, trying to dismiss it. "Your turn." 

"Uh." Blair shifted slightly. "Actually all I wanted to say was... thanks for being ready to kick butt." 

...  
... 

"Oh." 

"Yeah." 

...  
... 

Blair reached out and gripped Jim's hand tightly. Jim gripped back before letting go. 

"Well," Blair said, making as if to get up, "I'm going to-" he stiffened, sleeve caught in Jim's hand. 

Jim looked down. Yes, he was clutching Blair's sleeve. 

(finally) 

"Jim?" 

Jim held on, not saying a word. Trying not to think too much either. 

(But Blair had _stiffened_ ) 

Jim's mouth was dry. He began to release his fistful of shirt, move back - 

"No wait," and Blair's hand was on his back, gripping tentatively. " _Wait._ Uh...Uh." He began to rub Jim's back. "Just... uh" he laughed self-consciously, "Uh." 

Silence, marked only by increased breathing. Jim realized he was reciting a mantra to keep him sane. 

(please please please don't fuck this up don't fuck this up not this not this) 

"Jim?" Blair's voice, tentative. Apparently singing the same chorus. 

Jim relaxed marginally. 

He sat up a little, licking his lips nervously as he tugged again, placing the other palm on Blair's chest. Inhaled and again for strength, then leaned forward, slowly, slowly, till his forehead rested on Blair's shoulder, not daring to fall too far forward, but just enough to feel the cotton and warmth of his partner beautifully intimate and far too abrupt against his skin. 

"Jesus," Blair breathed. 

Jim allowed himself to lean a bit more, letting contact shudder through his body, sparking electric impulses. 

"Oh God Jim, Jim..." Blair's voice, his whispering voice. Blair's palms, moving slowly, fluttering over Jim, caressing shoulders, upper arms, back, apparently needing to touch any and every muscle group he could think of. "Jim..." 

Jim closed his eyes blissfully, listening to Blair breathe his name. Giving in to a simple kiss; a dry touch of lips to cheek more to affirm and reassure than capture taste, a kiss that ended with a finger on his mouth, not keeping him back as much as _holding_ him there so that Blair could ask 

"What the hell took you so long?" 

Jim grinned even though it hurt a little. Rubbing his face into Blair's shirt, _covering_ himself in scent, muffling his answer in fabric. 

"Jim?" 

Jim looked up, trying to keep it light. "Hey, I could ask you the same, huh? We're both men here." 

Blair stopped smiling. 

(shit) 

Jim gritted his teeth, waiting for Blair to move away. Except Blair _reached_ out instead and cupped Jim's face, dragging his thumb across Jim's mouth, carefully learning the texture of his lower lip. 

Jim inhaled, throat working. 

Blair smiled. 

"Yeah," he said softly, "guess we're both men here." 

The thumb stayed, slowly rubbing. Jim bent his head to kiss Blair's palm. Strange how it came so easily to him; easy that is, until he looked up and lost himself in Blair's eyes. 

(Why had he never realized... just how deep Blair's eyes could be?) 

"I was going to buy you something," Jim said, lost but needing to tell Blair this very important thing. 

Blair leaned forward and kissed Jim on the cheek, ever so slightly hitting his mouth. Jim surrendered, then moved back, needing to finish this. 

"I was going to buy you something for graduation," said Jim. "Because I... I wanted to get you this...it was a fish. A glass fish..." losing the words as Blair kissed and kissed him, holding onto whatever breath he could because Blair was taking it all inside. 

"I love it," said Blair between kisses, "I love it," or maybe he was saying "I love you." 

Both, Jim thought when Blair moved up, resting cheek to cheek and smiling. Blair meant both because he was smiling as he said, "Glass fish, huh Jim?" 

"Yeah." 

"I'll keep it safe for you." 

~ End. 

\-- 

Because love happens in that little slide between the magic and the ordinary of life. Or at least my life. Oh well. And OTP is all very well, but EVERYONE flirts, 'kay? So talk to me, do. 

* * *

End Glass fish by Spyke: spyke_raven@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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